The Black Wind
by Mirenately
Summary: What makes one a murder magnet? Why does it seem that Death follows his every step? Or is it the other way round... Maybe Conan knows better than those around him.


Authors note: This fic is just a theory, a crossoverish theory. Though I'll let you guess the second fandom which role was mostly to bring me inspiration to write this. In English, nonetheless.

Disclaimer: I do not own Detective Conan and anything related to it. Except this fic, that is.

**The black wind**

A proper detective shouldn't believe in supernatural. A detective genius must consider every option, no matter how improbable one may seem. Even if it defies common sense. At least, at first sight.

To Kudo Shinichi scientific explanation was always a primary choice which never needed additional plunge into the world of superstitions. Except for the times when those legend and tales held the clues to culprit's behavior. Nevertheless, it was so easy to label all those supernatural theories inconsistent and cross them out altogether. And yet… Yet he couldn't explain an ability of his own.

He once told Ran that detectives are like sharks that can smell blood from a huge distance. They are fearsome predators that follow their prey – a criminal – till they sink their sharp teeth into warm flesh. For him it was most true and yet different at the same time.

People called him a murder magnet as death seemed to follow his steps. Oh, how wrong they were! It was clearly the other way round. He was a wolf out for blood, involuntary, subconsciously attracted to the source – to the wounded one or, in his case, to the one whose death was nearing. Sometimes he even thought that he was jus a small, pathetic moth, drawn to a flame by instinct that he would never comprehend.

He first noticed at the age of seven, no more than eight, perhaps… A strange voice bursting into his thoughts like a gust of wind. The wind with black wings, because it always announced that someone nearby was going to leave the world of living. At first he considered it to be just his imagination playing games with him. Being a son of the famous consulting detective writer could do that to you. But since then it's only become worse.

Right before the incident in Tropical Land the wind grew louder, its' voice much clearer than he's ever heard. He could almost distinguish some words of a strange song, so achingly sad that each note stung painfully in his heart. And he could almost swear that the same voice asked – no, ordered – him to stay alive.

So now – no matter where he was and what he was doing – he could hear soft whispers guiding him through the crowd. "Her fate is decided, little meitantei… poor soul… Look, look, there is the one! Watch closely, he won't see the dawn… Her future is dark but you can change it… Hurry, hurry, Shinichi… Don't you see that the thread is almost cut…"

He tried to fight it, but the wind was too strong. It toyed with him, tangling him in the threads of Fate like a venomous spider, playing with his web. As if Shinichi was just a doll, a marionette with an illusion of free will provided by the thinnest cords and sheer skill of a puppet master. And so he had no choice but to go with the flow, paying keen attention to all wind's whispers and hints and hoping to win the futile race against Death itself.

Haibara could feel something too, but in a different way. She sensed some sort of residual charge left by the wind's mourning for the victims of Black Organization. Vermouth was the worst: black wind coiled around her body like a giant poisonous snake. She had it well hidden, though, under all her masks and disguises. As if she could hear it too, but has chosen the different side to fight for.

Sometimes he wondered whether his and Ai's strange ability was the key to their survival. As if someone or something didn't want to lose his favorite toys or pawns. Improbable… Yet there is only one truth… Even if it seemingly defies common sense.

So there he was: spending another day with Detective Boys. They were his charge, his responsibility, even his safe haven sometimes (though he didn't want to admit it even to himself). With the he could free himself of Conan and be Shinichi. Just for a while.

He hoped that nothing would happen this very day. He strived for a moment of peace, just for once, though he already knew that such thing was not possible. Not for him, not anymore. As if something or someone defied him the right to be left alone and untouched. As if someone or something considered him his property after saving his life.

He shivered as the feeling he's now become all too familiar with flooded his senses. Gentle pull of the invisible strings, subtle directions brought to him by barely distinguishable whispers. He turned his head, wondering, silently asking and internally pleading the cogs of Fate to stop.

His eyes scanned the crowd. Too many people, too many possible victims. "Not him, not her… Can't you see him? There… To the left… Can't you guess, little meitantei?" He concentrated on the group of three young men. One of them. It had to be one of them.

- What's wrong, Kudo-kun? – he heard Haibara asking in concern.

- Nothing… It's nothing.

He was ready to run, to shout a warning. But that would be useless, he knew. No one would believe a child, especially when he blabbers about someone's future death. At such moments he felt so useless, so pathetic. What was the point of his strange ability if he couldn't prevent what was going to occur?!

So he strolled after Detective Boys, his eyes never leaving three young men.

The black wind howled… One of them would shortly perish.


End file.
